"It was chaotic," Mangan says of the time he spent working for Baca. "Things would get deferred and delayed. He drove some of the administrative offices nuts. He'd make decisions, and they'd write it up, and then he'd say, 'That's not what I agreed to.' "
Block didn't believe Baca was cut out to be sheriff. But Block grew older and sicker without choosing a successor, which left the door open to a challenge from Baca.
David Plunkert
Ted Soqui
“You ever see a liberal mom or dad who lets
their kids do everything? That’s what Baca
is,” Robert Olmsted says of Sheriff Lee Baca,
pictured.
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Baca did not make a strong first impression in the 1998 campaign. Veteran journalist Joe Domanick wrote that he appeared "weak, indecisive and lacking in credibility." He also showed poor judgment in people, famously befriending a wealthy count who turned out to be a con man.
Block attacked Baca relentlessly throughout the 1998 primary. When Baca persevered, forcing Block into a runoff, Baca should have celebrated. Instead, he had a crisis of confidence. He had to flee to Hawaii to regather himself.
When Block died days before the runoff, Baca was elected almost by default.
The new sheriff set about winning over the rank and file. He did a tour of the stations, asking deputies to give him their wish lists. He promised everything they wanted — new squad cars, radios, computers, helicopters. His promises got him a new nickname: Disneyland Dad.
"The deputies were looking forward to a lot of stuff," Scaduto says. "Then those hopes were dashed. When it didn't come to pass, there was a lack of confidence that when he said he was going to do something it was going to happen."
Baca also sought popularity by doing away with the department's risk-management meetings. The meetings were rigorous, statistical performance reviews. Captains and commanders were forced to account for their arrest figures, use of force rates and liability issues. As a chief, Baca had overseen one of the toughest divisions, and had been called on the carpet.
"No one likes to get slammed monthly on these points," Sams says. "After '98, that went away."
Baca was much more interested in flashy public relations stunts — like a disastrous foray into sponsoring a Rose Parade float — and new programs that would transform the culture of law enforcement.
"The theoretical world is unlimited," he said in a 2001 interview, "while law enforcement is a self-limiting culture. My goal is to erase the cultural lines and blend the culture of law enforcement into the culture of society at large."
Baca wanted to create a dormitory for pregnant inmates. He wanted to send inmates out on work crews to clean up litter. He wanted new educational opportunities for deputies, and a leadership training institute. He wanted infrastructure upgrades, a rebuilt crime lab and a legislative liaison in Washington with a county car and an expense account.
(One thing he did not change, however, was the department's approach to incest cases. Decriminalizing incest, and placing abusive fathers in therapeutic, "non-penal" settings, proved too theoretical even for Baca to carry out.)
Baca's command staff placed all his ideas on large whiteboards — they called them "Baca Boards." There they listed who was responsible for each request and how far it had progressed.
While the theoretical world may have been unlimited, his budget was not. In 2001, Baca overran his budget by $25 million. The Board of Supervisors was outraged, especially because Baca had defied it by spending $2 million on a new airplane. Baca turned to his accountant, Paul Tanaka, to bail him out.
Hastily promoted to commander after Baca's election, Tanaka was assigned to look over the department's books. Baca's budget staffers came up with a plan to "pay back" the $25 million over two years. Baca didn't sign off on it until Tanaka gave his blessing.
The next year, Baca reassigned his budget manager and promoted Tanaka to chief. Just four years earlier, Tanaka had been a lowly watch commander in West Hollywood. Now he was in charge of a $2 billion budget.
Tanaka stayed on a fast track. In 2005, he was promoted again, to assistant sheriff. That spring, he also was elected mayor of Gardena (pop. 59,000). His opponent, Terrence Terauchi, says he recruited 300 deputies to walk precincts. Many in Gardena saw it as Tanaka's preparation for running for sheriff. Indeed, Tanaka has told several people that he plans to become sheriff when Baca retires.
Nowadays, says Chuck Jackson, "Paul's got his people spaced all over the department."
Witness L.A., a blog that has reported extensively on the jail abuse scandal, tallied up $42,500 in contributions to Tanaka's mayoral campaign from employees of the department. The majority of the contributors, the site found, was promoted.
Those favored for promotions are said to be "in the car." According to a declaration from one sheriff's commander, obtained for an employment discrimination lawsuit against the department, Tanaka and his allies would hang out on a patio at the sheriff's headquarters, smoke cigars and discuss who should be "in the car." According to the declaration, Tanaka issued numbered coins, known as "challenge coins," to favored employees.
"Only the deputies that have the special coin are allowed into the patio area to smoke cigars with Tanaka," the commander stated.
